


if you love me right

by manticoremoons



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Felching, Kink Exploration, Lingerie, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Zayn in Lingerie, Zayn-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Zayn Malik enjoys pretty lingerie in secret, and one time he doesn't (do it in secret, that is).</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you love me right

**Author's Note:**

> So I say five times, but it's really 4.5 but that's whatever. This story was born out of my undying thirst to see Zayn Malik arrayed in frilly, delicate and unbearably pretty underthings, and for him to really enjoy it. I haven't written in this fandom for almost a year so please bear with me if there's anything dubious. I played around with the On the Road Again tour dates this year because it just worked best with the timeline in my head. Long Street is indeed a real place in Cape Town, I party there every other weekend. The title is taken from the seminal sex-poetry stylings of Tove Lo's, "Talking Body", to which I listened on repeat (along with fka twigs) while slamming tequila to get through writing that love scene. I hope you enjoy this, see end notes for visual aides. I hope I've covered all the tags, please holler if I've not!
> 
> Many thanks to [Lena](itssimplylena.tumblr.com) and [Kendi](wakaflockazayn.tumblr.com) who generously took time out of their busy lives to read this and give me much-needed feedback/fix my dreadful grammar and spelling. I hope I've caught it all and will change if not.
> 
> Update: So the gifted, [Emmie](http://prettymuchjustsomestuff.tumblr.com), made some art after reading this fic, which is super rad. So please check it out [here](http://prettymuchjustsomestuff.tumblr.com/post/107623088693/i-blame-magali-go-read-languiddreamers-if-you). One of her pieces is posted at the end of this. Thank you, Emmie!
> 
> Update 2: The amazing and kind, [ Kendi](http://wakaflockazayn.tumblr.com) made some art for this story. She was an amazing beta and now above and beyond with the pretty. Check it out at the end of this story and on Tumblr [HERE](http://wakaflockazayn.tumblr.com/post/107717581136/for-maggie-languiddreamers-horrifyingly-amazing). Zayn in a thong has never been so delightful!

 

## I.

Shopping with the Maliks is not a simple or straightforward affair. For longer than Zayn can even remember the bimonthly shop in Leeds, not just to the local down the road, has never been a dull chore. Not like with other families. With his family, it’s a full-on extravaganza that takes, at the least, a few days of careful coordination and planning to do just right.

Pops brings out the old van—and it is ancient. It’s the same van that he bought just out of university with the last of his savings. He thought it’d be smart to have something he could drive in and live in, in case times got tough. It’s the same van he used to pick Mum up on their first date. They even shacked up in it for a month before both of them got stable enough jobs to rent a flat just outside of Bradford. He checks the oil and fills the tank with petrol, tinkers on the engine until his knuckles are smeared black with grease and he carries that heavy but not unpleasant smell of smoke and car on him. Mum packs snacks for everyone, chips and biscuits, a large bottle of water with a tower of paper cups notched on the lid. Sometimes she even uses up the left-over chicken tikka to make sandwiches (Zayn’s favourites). It's as though they’re preparing for a long camping trip or a war or something. Whenever Zayn asks her why she has to pack so much, she says in that all-knowing way of hers: “You never know how hungry we’ll get, sunshine, have to be prepared—we could be there all day.”

And then they all pile in to the back, Zayn, his sisters, his cousins and his aunts. There’s so many of them that Zayn wonders if there’s some sort of competition to see just how many people you can pack in the back of a vehicle without breaking down entirely or getting arrested. They manage to get all twelve of them in by some miracle, only a few minor scrapes and elbows to the face to show for it. Then they’re off, Pops pushing at the speed limit even with Mum’s quiet admonitions to ‘slow down’ and the van’s cantankerous gurgles, probably because he doesn’t want anyone to suffocate in the back.

But Zayn—Zayn quite likes how squashy it is, the way they have to tilt their heads back to catch a whiff of the fresh air leaking through the windows, the way he’s tucked in safely between his Auntie Maryum, who smells like roses and mint, and his daadi on the other side, warm and soft, her silk scarves fluttering against his cheeks every few seconds. Although he’d never say that out loud, just how much he likes it. He’s eleven after all and getting over-excited to be in the back of a crowded van with his family on a day trip to the big mall in the city is the kind of thing that’d get Doni taking the piss for days. And even Auntie Maryum, who’s in university studying to be a teacher and is also very beautiful _and_ cool, would ruffle his hair like he was being some kind of snot-nosed three year old. So he keeps it to himself but closes his eyes anyway to enjoy the rumble of the engine and the way they jostle with each stop and turn, and lets it all lull him to a light nap until they get to the mall.

Pops' off doing a run at the hardware store and maybe the art supply store to replenish his paints for when he’ll have time to actually sit down and do what he loves to do best. Zayn hadn’t wanted to go so he’d ended up staying with his mum and the rest of the girls, and that came with its own form of crazy. His mum tends to make a production of it. Gets the girls to try on a million different things and they make a proper fashion show, complete with special guest judges in the form of Daadi Elisha, who’s too nice to say anything mean about anyone’s outfits, and Saf, who just drools and gurgles at everything like it’s the best thing she’s ever seen. 

But the plus side is that it’s easy to wander off when there’s so many of you.  Zayn’s not a big fan of shopping, never has been. Just find what you like, get it, and you’re done—none of this endless trying on a hundred different things only to not purchase anything at all. He knows what he likes and that’s always helped him as well. So he does just that. He wanders off, his shopping—a pair of t-shirts, a fancy shirt for Auntie Zileh’s thirtieth birthday dinner in a few months, a neon green cap with an image of a snarling Hulk on the front of it, and some trainers that were on discount at the shoe store they’d passed almost an hour ago—clutched tight in his hand. There’s not that many exciting things to see in this store, but it is huge and so he follows a random circuit through endless racks of winter coats, all 50% off on account of the season, the sports section has a dizzying number of trainers and sweatshirts and joggers and footie gear, the swimwear section has a ton of colourful stuff for men and women, right in time for the summer, until he finds himself in front of a bargain bin full of—

Bright, lacy things. He picks one up and nearly drops it like his hand’s been burnt when he realises what it is. Ladies’ underwear. The one in his hand is lime green and pink, an odd colour combination. It’s all lace, which, as he discovers when he rubs his thumb across it, is kind of scratchy. It can’t be comfortable to wear against your bits, can it? He puts the panties down and picks a different pair. These ones are a garish red that reminds him of Christmas candy canes. The material is soft, so soft it feels like it’ll slip out of his hands, like some of Daadi’s most precious scarves, the ones she brings out for special occasions like weddings or Eid. He quite likes the slipperiness and he puts his own shopping bag down on the floor between his legs so he can look at it properly, hold the garment out to the light and see just how delicate the fabric is.

He puts that one aside carefully and picks another. These ones are slightly more elaborate and frilly, he wonders how they'd fit under clothes since that added layer seems impractical. They’re dark blue with a tiny bow knotted at the front and shaped like a pair of shorts. He suspects that they’d fit very tightly or else why not just make a pair of shorts instead of something that’s meant to be worn under clothes? The next pair—well, he honestly doesn’t know if he can call them _a pair._ They’re like two strings and a triangle, he reads on the label that they’re called a G-string.  They don’t look like they’d be comfortable, and he’s not quite sure how they’d be worn, but they are pretty cool. The triangle has a picture of Wonder Woman gazing into the distance with her fist raised on the front of it. He wonders if there are “G-strings” like this with a picture of Superman or something on the front, that’d be even cooler, he’s sure of it.

He looks around to make sure there isn’t anyone watching him fingering all the lady things and tries to make himself smaller while he picks up another pair. Because even at that age, he _knows_. Well, he has an idea that these kinds of things aren’t meant for boys. Boys are supposed to like fast cars and video games and all sorts of other things Zayn likes, and some things he doesn’t care about at all like football. But this stuff, pretty lacy girly things, they’re for girls. But he likes them nonetheless, likes the way they look, the bright colours on them, the sweet flowery new-bought smell and the softness—and just how many different kinds there are—his underwear comes in four colours, black, white, navy and sometimes red. Not like these.

“Zayn, where are you, time to go for ice creams!”

He jumps at the sound of his Auntie Maryum calling for him and drops the underwear like they’ve set his fingers on fire.

He takes one last look, picks up his shopping and runs off to find her.

*

He forgets about it. There’s comic books, family and school; Year 8 where he starts out as the shrimpy, slightly chubby and desperately uncool kid who gets into fights with some of the arseholes in his class until he moves to a different school in Year 9, grows a few inches and suddenly has friends. And life does what it always does, it just goes on.

 

## II.

Up till now, Zayn’s only ever gotten to touch Melissa through her uniform. A quick grope at her boobs over her shirt, enough so he can feel her nipples stabbing the centre of his palm and test the weight of them but not much more. Once, at the end-of-year dance, he notched his leg in between hers and she’d pressed down for a few seconds, fleeting. But he’d gotten hard at the unmistakable warmth of her pressed against him and wanted so badly to feel more.

He hasn’t had the chance—until now.

Mel’s the youngest child in a family of six. But given that she’s the only girl, she’s managed to score her own room in her mum’s flat. While her room is tiny and cramped, her mum’s old sewing machine squashed in next to her wardrobe and desk, it’s homey and very her. The walls are splattered with huge posters of Beyoncé, Usher, Justin Timberlake, Brandy, Mariah, MJ and a young Whitney—all of whom they’d listened to together, sharing her IPod on cold days after school last year when they’d still just been friends—alongside bits of Zayn’s rubbish art (presents he’d given her with heated cheeks, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment). There’s a scent lingering on the air, cocoa butter and something aggressively floral.

Her bed though—her bed is really comfortable.

And somehow, they’ve been kissing each other on her paisley-print bedspread, long, deep, exploratory kisses, for what feels like hours. He likes the way she tastes, and the way her mouth moves against his, greedy and curious with it like they’re in a rush when they’ve probably got all the time in the world. Her mum doesn’t come home till late and all her brothers are at work or school. But maybe it’s because they’ve been leading up to this for months. It’s been a lot of awkward flirting on his part, and side-long glances at each other over the keyboard in the music room when they’ve been practicing for their X Factor auditions (Melissa’s the only person besides his mum that he’s let hear his audition song. He’s supposed to drive up to Manchester for the whole audition thing in a couple of weeks and he’s dead nervous about it, and not even sure he’s going to bother going). There’s also been a lot of holding hands under the lunch table while all their friends chatter around them, as well as in the dark of the cinema (they’d watched _Planet of the Apes_ a couple of weeks ago, _Iron Man 2_ a few weeks before that) and now this.

Danny is pretty confident that Zayn can at least get down to shirts-off with Melissa this time around. Zayn’s not so confident. And he tries not to hear Danny’s encouraging, “Just get in there, mate, you know she’s down for it, yeah? She wants you!” and the equally encouraging leer he’d given Zayn when Melissa invited him to come over to her place to hang out. He’s also scared he’ll do something embarrassing like jizz in his pants the second he makes a wrong move. He’s already hard in his boxers and he dips his hips against Melissa’s left thigh so she can feel it too.

She doesn’t punch him in the face when he does this (a relief). But she does open her legs wider so he can slip between them, which makes his cock feel like it might explode. Melissa breaks the kiss and leans back against the pillows, her eyes gliding down to look at his shirt pointedly. Zayn doesn’t need to be asked twice, or even once, he gets up on his knees and yanks it over his head in one swift move—smooth, for him, he’ll think later. He’s not as tall or as built as Danny is, but almost five months of boxing training at the gym has given him _some_ muscle that he’s proud of, and there’s only a little softness in his belly.

Melissa strokes the tattoo he got for his granddad with her thumb and asks with a coy smile, “What’s that mean again?”

Her leg is creeping up along the back of his, drawing him closer, and he feels himself getting breathless again. “It’s, um, it’s for my granddad, Walter.”

She nods and there’s a warmth in her eyes. She, like most of his friends, knows that his granddad has been sick for almost a year and how anxious he’s been about it at different points over the term.

“He’ll be all right, you know,” she says. And he appreciates it even though she can’t know that, not for sure. “Thanks, Mel.”

Studying him closely for a few moments, she huffs, and pushes at him until he’s on his back and she’s on top of him, straddling his thighs. And if Zayn thought that he was hard as a rock before, this move makes him his cock ache.

“Here, let me distract you, yeah?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead, as though the product of one of his most detailed fantasies, she starts to unbutton her shirt with nimble fingers. She holds the two open flaps together for a second or two and moves her hips in a slow circle and he can’t even be mad that she’s teasing him, he just stares, breathless.

Then she opens her shirt and Zayn thinks he might faint. Or come. Both of which would be embarrassing. But the thing that gets him isn’t the sight of her breasts, rising over the top of her bra, it’s—well, it’s the bra itself. It’s not overly fancy or anything, emerald silk with a tiny black bow-clasp in between, seemingly the only thing stopping her tits from just falling out of it. But he’s never seen a bra on a real person besides his sisters (and those incidences had resulted in horrified screams and slammed bathroom doors and screeched demands to _knock next time, you knob_!)

But this time, he looks and he can’t stop looking.

Melissa seems to enjoy the way he’s watching her. With a sharp grin, she ducks anyway to kiss some more and everything goes blurry after that.

Minutes later, Zayn’s got her on her back again and he’s doing his level best to taste every inch of skin spread out before him. The downy skin at her neck tastes like vanilla, and between her breasts, she tastes salty with sweat. He nips at her the top of her breasts before pulling the left cup down awkwardly to press his mouth to her nipple. She arches into it with a gasp and he parks that away in a corner of his brain as a win. He swirls his tongue around the bud of her nipple, catches his teeth on it, just hard enough, and that makes Mel buck even wilder underneath him. Double-win.

It’s when he gets her skirt off that Zayn thinks he might just nut in his pants, for several different reasons.

The first is that he’s not quite sure this actually happening or whether he’s having one of his midnight fantasy wank sessions (the only time he can be sure everyone in the house is asleep and he can rub one, or two, sometimes even three out with his face pressed into his pillow to keep any noise from escaping). He’s in a bed with his nearly-naked girlfriend and she’s looking at him like she wants him to eat her all up and he’s definitely into that idea.

Two, her undies are barely-there black lace with pink bows on each side. And he’s not an expert on women’s underwear or anything but he likes that they’re not a matching set. It’s probably odd to think about how the colours complement each other while he’s about to get off with a real live woman for the first time in his life but he can’t help where his mind goes.  His brain’s scrambled eggs and all he can think is that he wants to look and to touch, and then maybe taste her just like that.

He puts his hand on her thigh and slides up to her panties, hesitant, and hooks his thumb on the clingy material, tests its resilience before letting it snap back on her hip. Melissa groans at that, he files that away too.

Ducking down, he presses his mouth to the bow on them, sniffs at the material. It smells like her and a bit blossom-y like laundry detergent. He rubs his nose against the warm patch just above her cunt. The scent of her is heady and sweet, he can feel her wetness underneath it, see the damp patch she’s leaving on the fabric and that, if possible, gets him even hotter. He pushes his groin against the bed beneath him trying his best to stave off the orgasm prickling at the base of his cock.

He thinks he’d like to spend eternity just exploring this—Melissa and the different kinds of underwear she’s got stuffed in her drawers, watch her put them on and help her take them off with his fingers and maybe his teeth.

He hears a cleared throat and looks up to see Melissa staring down at him with a raised brow. “You gonna take them off anytime soon, babe?”

And, that’s more than a little awkward. He laughs it off and covers up his blush by bending his head down and doing what Danny instructed him to do on the occasion that he ever found himself naked in a bed with a girl. He presses a soft kiss to the top her thigh and then moves inwards to her cloth-covered centre, licks a stripe along her bush through the lace and peels the fabric aside so he can get at her bare.

He’s not good at this, no matter how many times he’s played it out in his head, but he does his best to make her forget that awkward moment of distraction. What he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm.

And by the way she tugs on his hair, so hard that she nearly yanks it out at the roots and has the back of his head aching for a good day after, he mostly succeeds.

 

 

## III.

He doesn’t think about pretty underwear for a while after that because everything seems to start happening to him at lightning speed.

One minute, he’s being dragged to his audition, his mum yelling at him from the driver's seat to comb his bloody hair while he sulks in the backseat of the car in silent protest. She glares at him until he concedes because there’s _no way he’s going to be on TV looking like that_! And the next minute, he’s thrown in a group with four other boys and it’s the five of them against the world in the middle of a reality competition. And a minute after that, they’re flying to America, and going on tour, and releasing their first album and then their second, and doing a worldwide tour in front of a seemingly endless stream of screaming fans from one side of the globe to the other, and there’s talk of a stadium tour and they’re finishing up their third album and putting out a movie.

And it’s just a fucking lot. So who can blame him, really?

The thing with Zayn is he’s never been good with rapid change. It’s not that he doesn’t like change at all, it just takes him a touch longer. The other boys are quick to adjust, they take to things like ducks to water with varying degrees of ease. He, by comparison, is tortoise-like. The one who needs to take a lot of time in the midst of all the swirling and whirling to get acclimated to even just the idea of every single thing. It means that sometimes he takes to curling up under a shell to wait things out and sort it in his head before he can be all right with it, and then he’s fine. Gets over it, quits overthinking it.

Of course, that means people think a lot of things about him most of which aren’t even remotely true. He’s the awkward one (true), the quiet one (he’s not quiet at all once anyone gets to know him), the mysterious one (which is hilarious because he knows himself and he’s not that deep) or the bad boy (which, is at least 2% his own fault for coming up with that stupid ‘Bradford Bad Boi’ nickname in the first place, even if it was just a joke with the lads who knew that he was anything but).

And then Ben comes up with the concept for the “Best Song Ever” video and there’s absolutely no question that he’ll be the one to play the sexy secretary.

“You were born for it, mate,” Harry says in that slow, syrupy drawl of his, a twinkle in his eyes that makes Zayn grin back at him and pull a duck-face. Harry responds in kind, rearranging his own face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. Before Zayn can retaliate and the two of them devolve into their usual antics, Liam says, “Oh, you ought to wear chartreuse.”

“What the hell’s chartreuse?” Niall asks from where he’s positioned with his feet in the air and his head hanging down over the couch, in nothing but a pair of boxers for some reason.

Liam shrugs. “I have no idea but it’s one of my mum’s favourite colours.” Niall does his best to shrug from his awkward upside-down position as if this is a perfectly acceptable answer.

“Promise you’ll let us play with your tits at least, Zayner,” Louis says with a smirk and the other three leer at that. It makes them look like a creepy quartet of grinning bobble head toys.

Zayn just shakes his head and looks to Ben with a shrug. “All right, sounds like a plan.”

*

“Fuck me, this bra’s like a tent!”

Lou rolls her eyes, “It’s a DD-cup, love, and it’s not that big.”

Zayn shoots her a sceptical look, while he holds the exceptionally large white contraption in front of him—it’s bigger than his head, easily. “It’s massive. Humongous. Colossal. I think it might kill me.” He’s not sure whether to be horrified or excited, given that he doesn’t think he’s even touched breasts this ample in real life and he’s touched a lot of breasts in his time. Which makes him seem like a prick but it’s true.

“Chin up, babe,” Lou says, dusting some holding powder on his chin to make sure his make-up doesn’t melt away. “You’re like the Pam Anderson of One Direction, it’ll be hot.”

He’d had to sit for two hours just getting the prosthetics for ‘Veronica’ sorted. It’s made his forehead significantly bigger, which is weird. But the wig doesn’t feel so bad (except when Brooklyn took one look at him wearing it and started bawling her eyes out because she couldn’t recognise him, not even when he tried to sing to her the way he always does when she starts fretting). Lou’s sprayed some bubble-gum-y stuff on it and wrapped his head in a scarf so he won’t fuck it up and make it lose its wavy style. The lipstick and gloss and a couple of other details will have to wait until he’s done with wardrobe.

All in all, the first stage of this video has involved standing almost perfectly-still while a team of frantic artists plus Lou flutter around him, maneuver him this way and that, shave him to within an inch of his life, sculpt at his face with creams and clay, smear flesh-coloured paint all over his tattoos—except for the swallow on his hand which has been coloured in bright colours to fit the character. He’s had his nails done, a classy French manicure that looks great on his fingers, reminds him of his mum and how she does her nails.

It’s been four hours and he’s not even dressed yet and it’s the longest prep he’s ever had to do for a video. He’s torn between excitement at this entire process, inhabiting an actual character—something they haven’t done on their videos before—and being pretty much over the whole thing.

Caroline comes at him with a pair of blouses, one starchy white and the other sky blue and holds each one up against his skin to see which’ll work best. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Hey,” Zayn retorts, “I’m just worried I won’t be able to hold these tits up, they’re going to mess with my centre of gravity.” Zayn couldn’t confirm that if he tried, he's fairly sure slept through almost every physics class he’d ever taken in secondary school, but the boobs and the heels have him vaguely concerned for his wellbeing.

Rolling her eyes, Caroline tosses the sky blue shirt at him along with a gunmetal grey skirt, some stockings and something she calls a girdle that looks like a pair of rather functional but pretty granny panties (Lou says it’ll help keep his bits in place and give him some shape. He wonders what ‘bits’ she’s talking about since a lean as a rail, a straight line up and down).

“All right, joker, go and get dressed. Yell if you need anything and be careful with those stockings. If you rip them, I will smack you!”

Zayn shoots her a shit-eating grin and says in his thickest Bradford accent, “No you won’t, Caro, you looooooove me.”

She shakes her head and slaps him on the back of the head. “ _Now_ , babe, we’re behind schedule already—so hurry up, please.”

He does as told without giving Caroline much more grief. But not before he presses a loud kiss on her cheek on his way to the closet that’s doubling as his designated dressing room, which wins him a fond smile. He always has been her favourite.

Plonking the pile of clothes on a chair, Zayn shucks the gown he’d been walking around in for most of the morning, mumbling to himself, “Well, here we go then.”

He starts with the girdle because that seems like the easiest. And it’s funny because they’re probably the un-sexiest article of clothing he’s ever seen in his life. But they’re silky-soft and fit snug against his body, like Lou promised, cradling his cock and balls in ways even the tightest briefs can’t do and lending him the arse he’s never possessed—well, a tiny bit of a curve at least. He shifts his thighs and it’s bloody tight.

He likes that, how constricting it is and he feels a tug in the pit of his stomach at just the feel of wearing this, at the sight of himself in the full length mirror resting against the wall, the way it emphasises and flatters his lean frame. He ignores it. Tries to.

Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the massive bra. He’s got jelly-filled balls (one of the costume people, Richonne, claimed it was the same silicone stuff they put in fake boobs) to stuff in the cup once he’s got the bra on to give him extra shape. Zayn’s unclasped a lot of bras over the years, and it hasn’t gotten easier with time. Putting on a bra, he discovers, is an exact science as well. His fingers are clumsy and it takes him a minute before he finally figures out how to do the hooks-and-eye and then slip the straps on. “Idiot,” he mumbles to himself, it’s not like he hasn’t seen Perrie put on a bra more than once.

This time he can’t pretend not to feel the way his cock stirs at just wearing this. He gulps and picks up the flesh-coloured silicone balls, squeezes them to shape, and stuffs them inside each cup.

He’s almost scared to look at himself this time but his curiosity outmatches the faint dread. He lifts his gaze and freezes at his own reflection, transfixed.

Even though the make-up he’s got on has softened his face, it’s still unmistakably him staring back. His jaw, sharp and undeniably masculine, his eyes, glazed over with something he’s too afraid to name right then, his shoulders, too broad and spare-boned under the thin bra straps, his torso, lean and smattered in tattoos. The mix of visuals is overwhelming and Zayn lifts a shaking hand up to cup his breasts through the bar, squeezes them tentatively, and traces his hand down the line of his ribs to follow the new shape of him. He’s never felt like this.

Beautiful. He turns around to look at himself from the back. His bottom will never be substantial but he likes the way it looks in the girdle, just tight and compact. He imagines, just a flash, being bent down over the chair and someone fucking into him the way he’s dressed now—probably in panties with easier access.

And a sickened flush creeps up from his neck, blooms on his cheeks. He can’t see it under the make-up but he can feel it, a prickle spreading all over his body.

What the fuck is he doing?

His cock’s hardening and he reaches down to put some pressure on it, his hand moving of its own accord to brush his thumb on the head clearly visible under the silk, a spot of pre-cum already showing—

The banging on the door slaps Zayn out of his daze like he’s been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

“You doing all right in there?”

And obviously, he’s not. He’s having a full on crisis of some sort. Possibly.

He clears his throat. “Y-yeah, I’m good, um—just getting the stockings on, give me five minutes.”

He looks at his cock, the half-hard solid length of it sticking out obscenely at the front of the girdle.  It should look wrong, shouldn’t it? But it doesn’t.

He can’t think about this now. He counts to ten and then to twenty to try to will his semi down. How awkward would it be if Caz walked in and found him sporting a hard-on from wearing lady’s knickers? He’d never hear the end of it for one. He’d have to move to an isolated monastery in the mountains and never show his face again for embarrassment. Or something like that.

Gnawing on the inside of his cheek he picks up the stockings with a purposeful flourish, and tells himself to get on with it.

That’s easier said than done. And by the time he’s got his full outfit on minus the heels and whatever other accessories are waiting for him, he’s gone through five pairs (Caro looked increasingly irritated each time he’d yelled for another pair) and he’s decided that stockings are the ninth circle of hell. But he can’t deny just how much he enjoys the sheerness of them against his thighs, the subtle bite of the garters, the way they’d looked with the girdle and the bra.

All the suffering and angst are almost worth it once he sees the reactions to his full transformation from each of the boys. Louis wolf whistles loudly, Liam curses under his breath and just stares with his mouth hanging open. Niall looks like he got hit in the face with a shovel when he mumbles, “Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not ready for a gay crisis, Malik.”

Harry—well, Harry’s a whole different story. Zayn’s not even sure why it’s his reaction that matters the most. It’s just, he’s always had something to prove with Harry. And it’s all in his head obviously but he just—he _likes_ it when Harry notices him just the way he sometimes notices Harry.  

They’ve been doing it since Bootcamp when Zayn’d poke at Harry’s dimples in a way that was supposed to be mocking but mostly ended up being admiring because they were cute dimples, and Zayn hadn’t even realised he had a dimple fetish until he met Harry Styles. Then Harry started pointing out Zayn’s cheekbones, running his fingers along Zayn’s chin when he started growing out his stubble. And in the grand scheme of One Direction’s inappropriate touching and invasions of personal space, it wasn’t that significant. But it felt different than with the other guys. It wasn’t just rough-housing like with Louis or reassuring snuggles with Liam, reminders that they were in this together, all of them. With Harry, there was just always this added undercurrent of _something_ else. It probably didn’t help that somewhere along the line, they’d started kissing and ‘helping each other out’ when the going got tough on tour and they needed to let off some steam—a furtive handsy in BUS 2 here, the occasional blowie in some arena toilet or one of their hotel rooms and one time on a flight to Sydney there, nothing serious. Just an easy _non_ -thing between friends.

But still, he likes the way Harry licks at his lower lip and openly stares, something hungry with it. He likes even better when Harry comes forward to take a closer look, his gaze appraising as he says, his voice raspy and low like he’s telling a secret he wants to keep just between them, “You look good—told you, you were born for it.”

That afternoon of shooting passes in a flush-hot blur. A flurry of Ben yelling “Action!” and “Cut!” and a hail of other directions, and occasionally looking like he wants to have a fit when the five of them lose focus and start flicking elastic bands and anything else at each other.

Zayn’s almost entirely hobbled by the heels, he’s not got the ankles for it. But he enjoys how they make it necessary for him to shorten his steps and wiggle his bottom on each one so he keeps his balance. He can feel Harry watching him each time. A flash of want that Zayn’s only ever seen when he’s on his knees in front of Harry in a cramped toilet stall.

 The big flirty dance scene comes on and it’s like Harry can’t get enough of it, even Ben points out, “You’re getting seriously into character there, Harry.”

And Harry’s shameless with it too, tossing a dimpled, “I call it my method, Ben,” over his shoulder before he yanks Zayn closer and shimmies his hips, close enough that Zayn can feel his cock through his jeans, like a firebrand. He presses his hand flat against Zayn’s back and the pressure forces him to arch forward. And Zayn’s scared (also excited, very excited) that Harry’s going to kiss him right there in front of everyone. They barely even do that when they’re alone with their casual _non_ -thing.

And, _Fuck_. Suddenly Zayn’s extremely grateful for the tight fitting girdle because he’d be embarrassing himself big time otherwise.

“Come to my room later,” Harry whispers in his ear when Ben finally calls it a day, or rather a night, just shy of 10:45PM. “We’ll do manly things, football, and beer, anything you like.” And there’s a barely-disguised promise in there that makes Zayn shudder and turn his head to face Harry, so their faces are a shade too close to be considered anything but intimate. It says a lot that no one notices anything particularly out-of-order with them standing like this, practically on top of each other, ready to swallow the other whole.

“What time?”

“Anytime,” Harry says, but the way he runs his tongue across his lower lip says he wants Zayn in his room as soon as humanly possible.

Zayn just nods, tries to swallow passed the lump of anticipation sitting at the base of his throat.

The grin Harry throws at him before he swaggers off could only be described as predatory. Not for the first time, Zayn wonders how anyone ever thinks Harry’s the sweet one. He's an absolute menace is what he is, one that gets what he wants way too easily. In this case, Zayn's very much all right with that.

*

The plan’s foolproof.

Except that they forget that there are three other boys in this band, _also_ buzzing with canned-energy after a too-long day on the job and in search of something to do in the thick summer heat.

They hadn’t felt how humid it was during the shoot because of all the portable fans and the air conditioning turned on high to make sure nothing fucked with the prosthetics and make-up. But in the hotel room, the heat seeps in through the open door in heavy waves and makes all of them lethargic. Zayn doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to American summers—summers anywhere other than England really. Out here, this time of year, Miami feels like you’re living in a pressure cooker.

He tries not to be peevish about the sweltering temperatures and the fact that now all _five_ of them are in Harry’s room, the TV blaring some game of football Zayn doesn’t give a flying fuck about, Louis and Liam setting up a game of mini beer pong that’s going to end in tragedy and disaster on the wrought-iron table on Harry’s balcony, and Niall ordering enough beer and food to feed a small army, which Zayn appreciations because he’s ravenous. But he’d rather be licking pancake syrup off of Harry’s abs than off a plate.

He decides the least he can do to contribute to this impromptu room party and distract himself from the “anything you like” Harry promised (or threatened) earlier is roll a couple of spliffs. That he won’t share with anyone. Not even Louis.

He sets himself up on the business-sized desk in Harry’s room, neatly folded roach paper, some leaf and rolls three neat joints in quick succession.

“Hope you’re not intending on smoking those in here,” a voice murmurs right against the nape of his neck. _Harry_.

“No,” Zayn says with a shake of his head. “’Know you don’t like the smell of it amongst all your vanilla and wild lavender candles.”

Harry notches his head over Zayn’s shoulder so he can whisper extra soft against his cheek. Harry’s so close that Zayn can feel his lips move across his jaw with each word. He shuts his eyes, bites his lip to halt the moan crowding at the tip of his tongue. “Wouldn’t mind shot-gunning with you, though.”

Nearly every other time they’ve shot-gunned, he and Harry have ended up trading the sloppiest of blowjobs, the kind where Zayn begs Harry to come all over his face so he can _feel_ it, and Harry cleans them both up with his tongue like it’s his last meal. So what more can Zayn say than, “Yeah, all right.” And do his best to tuck his dick away until the lads exhaust themselves and get lost.

Four hours later, and they’re all drunk. Horribly drunk. Louis’ passed out on the swiftly-aborted beer pong table, Liam’s been mumbling about going to his room for the last half hour but has so far not been able to make a move to get up, and Niall’s snoring loudly by the TV with the remote control in hand.

Zayn stopped being able to see straight a good twenty minutes ago so he’s opted to close his eyes and lie down next to Harry on the bed. Harry who is still telling the same ‘Knock, Knock’ joke he was telling when Zayn closed his eyes to stop the room from spinning. He keeps forgetting the punchline and so opts to make them up, except every single one he makes up is bloody terrible.

Zayn laughs at every single one.

Cracking one eyelid open, Zayn pulls Harry down onto to him, presses a warm, messy kiss to the corner of his mouth and says _a propos_ of nothing, “I wish you could’ve fucked me tonight.”

Harry blinks, his eyes glazed and round—like glazed doughnuts, Zayn thinks, except they’re green. Maybe they’re Hulk doughnuts.

Appearing to have difficulty processing Zayn’s wish, Harry leans down and stage whispers, looking furtively around the room as though he expects Paul or the police to come and batten down the doors, “We can’t, Zaynie, we’re not alone.”

Absently, Zayn wonders if Harry’s always been so paranoid when he gets high because it’s dead weird. Out loud, he says, “Kiss me, babe. Just one.” He tugs Harry’s right leg over his hips and crooks lower to press a wet kiss on the side of Harry’s face because it’s the nearest thing he can reach without moving too much. Harry purrs into it and tilts up to meet Zayn’s mouth on the next pass, his mouth open and clumsy.

Harry shifts his hips, a needy little whimper falling out of his mouth.

Zayn hears it and without thinking, he lifts his leg up so his foot is flat on the bed and his thigh presses up into Harry’s cock, gives him some leverage. Harry, who’s hard and seemingly over his previous paranoia, starts squirming insistently against Zayn’s thigh. Little jerky movements accompanied by pitched sounds like he’s in pain.

“Wanted to fuck you so bad,” he mumbles into Zayn’s mouth.

It hits Zayn then that he’s hard too. Rock hard. Fucking gloriously hard, like maybe he’s been hard since the day he was born and he could drill a hole in the wall like a hammer. Thor’s hammer.

But his dick also feels like it’s being choked and that's uncomfortable. Unzipping his jeans is too difficult so he doesn’t bother. He just tugs Harry right on top of him and rolls his hips upward to catch some kind of friction.

“Oh… yeah,” Zayn slurs when Harry arches his back so he can rut against Zayn that much harder on the down-stroke. He reaches down to cup Harry’s bum and drag him close, close as he can get with both of them still dressed.

“Shhh,” Harry whispers as his movements get more frantic. He bites down into Zayn’s mouth and giggles. “Got to keep quiet or the others’ll know and they’ll try to join in on this too.”

Zayn laves his tongue across Harry’s. They’re breathing right into each other’s mouths, less to keep quiet and more because it’s the closest they can get to kissing. Kissing requires way more coordination than either of them have.

“Why, babe, don’t wanna share me?”

Harry speeds up, his hips battering down into Zayn’s. “No. No, don’t wanna share you—want you all for me.”

He sounds like he’s pouting and Zayn almost wishes he could open his eyes to see. He doesn’t do that though. Instead, he reaches down, shoves a hand into the waistband of Harry’s joggers and grips his cock.

One touch, and Harry’s off, warm wet jizz spilling onto Zayn’s fingers, as if he couldn’t hold it in any longer because he’d been doing that all day. He doesn’t stop moving his hips though, whines, “Zayn, come on, wanna feel you come, too.” And it’s that that nudges Zayn over the edge. It’s not the most spectacular of orgasms by a long shot but his body spasms with it anyway, breath wheezing out of his mouth as he kisses Harry, lazy-soft and booze-addled.

The last thing Zayn thinks before he passes out is just how much he likes the weight of Harry on top of him, solid and heavy, and how he likes Harry’s green donut eyes so much. So, so much.

*

The next morning Zayn wakes feeling like he’s been hung and stretched out to dry, his tongue too thick for his mouth and his head throbbing, Harry’s gone already. Which is pretty usual, Harry tends to be an obnoxiously early riser during tour so he can catch his regular morning workout.

As he clambers out of bed and briefly contemplates crawling to the bathroom, Zayn feels the snug girdle rub against his cock. He’d completely forgotten about keeping it on last night after the shoot. He’s not sure why he did it, for himself or to maybe surprise Harry since he liked the rest of the outfit so much. In broad daylight, it hits him as a somewhat stupid idea. It’s not as comfortable as it was yesterday, the material pinching at his thighs, and the dry come on the inside of it making everything feel disgusting. Either way, he’s suddenly incredibly grateful that he’s a lightweight and Harry’s not much better. Because unzipping his jeans to reveal a pair of ladies underwear underneath probably would’ve been awkward.

Shucking his shirt, he laughs to himself as he strolls into the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

 

 

## IV.

It takes over a year for Zayn to bother with lingerie again. Not for any profound reason. They do a stadium tour and he gets into the writing side of things on the fourth album and it’s—it’s a whole other realm of experience.

Maybe he’d been scared before, scared of giving voice to his ideas and having those ideas laughed at by other people. But it’s not like that, even with Shahid who has a wicked sense of humour and can be a bit of a dick to people he doesn’t consider family. Being in the studio is so much like tinkering around with paint cans in his art room at home, pouring out anything and everything that comes into his mind in a splash of colour. Sometimes it’s not pretty or even coherent, sometimes it’s possible to make it into something different and better, sometimes it’s best to just paint over it in white and start over. But it’s the experience of it, of opening up parts of himself and letting other people see that he likes the most.

So it makes sense that he doesn’t have any time to even think about fancy underwear.

And maybe part of it is that thing of his, of needing time to _settle_ into an idea before he’s ready to properly confront how he feels about it. Maybe he just wasn’t ready before and it needed to happen at the right time in the right place, and just a few hours after a massive phone fight with Perrie and a lacklustre performance for some bloody Christmas special was the ideal moment.

Or maybe, he’s just bored enough, tipsy after cleaning out the minibar, with absolutely fuck-all to do before he flies back home in the morning, alone in a hotel room in New York, just a week before the holiday break. And in a moment like that, looking up sexy underwear for men just seems like a good idea.

His palms are sweating as he types it in the waiting Google engine:

M-E-N-‘-S—K-N-I-C-K-E-R-S

And then quickly backspaces because that looks and sounds stupid, and replaces his search with:

L-I-N-G-E-R-I-E—F-O-R—M-E-N

 _Better_ , he thinks, _probably a little classier_. He had considered just daring himself to go to some shop in the mall just outside the hotel and looking through the women’s underwear section but that had presented several complications. Number one, _The Mirror_ and every other tabloid would have a bloody field day with the story if it got out that famed “drug addict boy-bander”, Zayn Malik had been caught fingering lady things in public. The second complication was far simpler: he was scared. It was odd enough that he had this craving that wasn’t exactly the height of manliness. If the lads knew, they’d flat out laugh at him for it, and God knows what his mum or his sisters would say. They’d probably think he was going through a crisis, look at him like he was going to break into a million pieces and ask him the dreaded question, _Do you want to see someone, sunshine? Maybe talk to someone—I know that things can get overwhelming and you hold things inside so much, it’d be good to just open up, don’t you think_? He’d heard variations of it before, all coming from the bottom of their too-kind hearts and he didn’t want this put on the table and dissected as yet another way Zayn Malik was a fuck-up. It isn’t even something new, it’s been scuttling around inside his head for longer than he can even remember. So he just needs to deal with it.

The first few hits aren’t much to write about and then he finds what he’s looking for, an _entire_ site dedicated to underwear for men. He realises he lives in a world where pretty much anything is possible—he’s walking proof of that but he hadn’t expected there to be this many options, a bloody goldmine’s worth of options.

There’s everything from bras and panties to frilly camisoles and lace teddies, G-strings and C-strings, intricate corsets and stockings in every colour imaginable. It’s amazing. All the signature pieces have names that are quite cool, “The Deacon Teddy”, which looks like something a nun in a brothel might wear, “The Lachlan Camisole” is like Braveheart, the movie, gone kinky, “The Cassidy C-string” is a scrap of lace that Zayn has trouble believing could stay on his dick longer than a second.

He settles back against the pillows and opens up a million tabs, compares prices and reviews.

Something called the “Lucy Thong Set”, a customer favourite, is all silk with eyelets that show glimpses of nipple and cock if you move just so. One reviewer writes:

_When this design was first teased I was interested, but then when it came out I felt a bit shy about buying it. I eventually ended up ordering it after a friend showed interest in seeing me wear it. I'm glad she gave me the little push, this is just delightful. It's unbelievably comfortable and has been a real hit. I hope to see some more pieces along this very naughty line, and won't hesitate so much to get more._

He orders four of that one in different colours, along with the matching bras.

Username Thomas promises that the “Tina Frill Teddy”, which comes in white, black and red, and has slinky garters that draw Zayn’s eye, is tailored enough that it fits under regular suits, and that he’s worn it to work under his clothing with no problems. Zayn adds all three colours to his virtual shopping basket.

The stockings, which he’d had such a time of when he played Veronica are a definite must. Yes, he’d decimated four pairs before he finally managed to get them on without tearing them irreparably but he’d enjoyed the sensation of them and he wouldn’t mind feeling that way again.

When he’s done, Zayn’s on a high—like he’s smoked a strong joint too quickly; his blood thrumming with delayed excitement. It’s almost cathartic. He gets the whole ‘retail therapy’ thing now and the simple pleasure to be had from just buying things he actually wants for himself. He’s lucky that his form of therapy involves fancy underwear rather than something that’d bankrupt him because that would kind of suck.

His purchases are set to be delivered to his house in London in January given that its the holiday period. That works well enough since he’ll head there after he’s spent a few weeks with his family in Bradford.

Nodding to himself, he shuts down his laptop, flips on the television and falls asleep to the tail-end of the _Avengers_ that’s playing on the first channel he finds, a smile on his face.

*

They have a few days’ break in between tour legs, Zayn spends most of it up in Bradford with his family. So he doesn’t get the package until he goes to his house to pack a day before they have to leave, early so they can film a music video in New York, which’ll be exciting—they’ve never filmed anything there before and it’s probably his favourite city over there, he likes the anonymity of it, the indifference of it.

His cleaning staff come regularly so his house looks orderly, even though it seems just a little barer and emptier with Perrie’s things all packed up and gone. She took most of the pets with her and Zayn’s been sad about that, but he didn't feel he had much room to fight it given the circumstances. At least Arnie’s staying with Danny and Ant for the time being since Zayn’s travelling so much.

He breathes a sigh of relief as he shuts the door behind him, leans back against it, the solid steel seeping cold into his fingers. He’d thought that coming back to this house that he’d shared with someone he loved—still loves—would be difficult, like it might not even feel like it belonged to him anymore. But it feels good to be back in his space, in the house that he bought for himself.

Smiling, he walks to the kitchen to get himself a pint and considers smoking a spliff or two before he starts packing for tour—he’s gotten better with that in his old age. Although, the fact that there’s no way he’d be caught dead in half the shit that Harry or Niall or Liam wear these days might’ve made him improving his packing skills a necessity.

There’s a nondescript cardboard package on the kitchen table in amongst all his mail and the week’s newspapers. Frowning, Zayn picks it up and searches for some kind of labelling. There’s a logo on the front, a bow with the letters HM above it, and suddenly he remembers, his cheeks growing hot.

“Right, well then.” The date on the box tells him that it came by almost three weeks before, he just hadn’t seen it since he’d spent most of the holidays and the short break before tour hiding out at his parents’ house and then, when that got too much, in Danny and Ant’s flat.

He leaves the package there while he putters around the house, rolls a joint with quick careful fingers, and sips on a beer. It waits on the counter and then his dressing table like a bomb. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the box was watching him like some kind of all-seeing sentient eye, which would be creepy.

“Stop being a fucking cunt, Malik.” He’s not scared of it, per se. But there’s a part of him that thinks this is it. The point of no return. And like most other things, he’s got to work himself up to that.

He’s managed to do everything _but_ open the box. Pack his suitcase, half-unpack it because he realises that four pairs of Docs is likely not a good use of space, and pack it again with his favourite pair, the oxbloods, and some actual clothes, a couple of books he’s not going to have time to read, his favourite leather jacket, four different beanies and his jewellery.

Finally, with nothing left to do, he picks up the box and peels the tape away with no finesse whatsoever. There’s a classy gift card on the top of the wrapped underwear with a ‘Thank you for your purchase’ message and an invitation to spend $25 on anything except discount pieces in the store. He tosses that aside, and picks up the carefully-wrapped lingerie, nibbling at his lower lip with banked excitement.

He may have been overenthusiastic for a first purchase, eight pieces in total, but they’ve packed it so well, each item neatly folded so at least it doesn’t _look_ like he’d gone nuts.

He tips everything over onto his bed spread. And the colours are garish against the plain pale blue-and-white checks, lush pinks and rich creams, mesh stockings in black and grey, indigos and stark reds, the mossy-green bra-let and pantyhose he’d liked because, funnily, they’d reminded him of Harry’s eyes (which was just weird and not something he’d ever tell Harry, probably), and a royal purple corset that he’d thought would look great on his skin.

He spreads his hands over them and takes in all the different textures. While everything’s soft, each intricate detailing is fascinating. Regular men’s underwear is so boring in comparison, so functional. Here, it’s like every piece is made to be enjoyed, to be seen and felt and _experienced_. They’re art. Some of them tasteful and others like something out of the kind of tacky glamour porn you only get on Pay per View in hotels. Each one is delicate yet strong enough for his kind of body, even so, he’ll have to wash them on the lowest spin cycle setting just in case so they don’t get ruined.

Biting the bullet, Zayn closes his eyes and picks the first one his hands land on—a lovely blue bra and panty set complete with black lace-top leather stockings. He’d chosen this because it kind of reminded him of a comic book hero outfit. Needless to say, when he’d dreamed of being a superhero as a kid, dressing up in sexy undies hadn’t been on the table. There’s a delicious irony to that now.

He shucks his clothes, impatient to get on with it. It takes some figuring out. And there’s something in him that wants to be careful, to not rip everything to bits on the first go, to take this all in.

When he’s done, adjusting his cock so it doesn’t just fall out the side, shimmying his hips a bit to get used to the bite of the string along the crack of his arse, tightening the straps just right—he walks toward the full length mirrors outside his walk-in cupboard.

And he stares at himself.

He likes the way it looks on him. His hair’s grown out, almost down to his shoulders and he hasn’t shaved in a week so his beard’s come in. He likes that, the contrast of soft and hard, his bony broad shoulders under the fragile peacock blue straps, the way his ink spreads out across his skin, all harsh black lines against a blank canvas and his happy trail leading down to a snug triangle of black lace and silk, he likes how the garters hold the leather stockings high up on his thighs so there’s only a strip of tanned skin visible from the front. He even likes that his legs are hairier than this kind of get-up would normally demand—it all just works together. It’s pretty and striking. And it’s _him_.

There’s not that shameful feeling mixed in with the enjoyment of this that he felt last time. It’s just, it’s what he likes. He likes to look and feel pretty, to touch himself through barely-there knickers, to see the large wet spot blooming just under the ribbon because just seeing himself like this is getting him so hot.

But he likes, too, the idea of just lounging in that teddy he got while he reads the morning paper or has a cup of tea. Or wearing them under his clothes to label meetings or for a night out with the lads or on stage in front of millions of people.

There’s something freeing in it, this thing, this need is his and it’s nothing he has to be embarrassed about or that he has to share with anyone. It’s not a performance, he’s not being put on the spot in an interview, there’s no one to tell him he’s fucking up royally or hurting their feelings. He’s not answerable to anyone or anything but himself and the way his body buzzes with this energy, like a livewire, like he’s finally finding himself.

He reclines on the bed and inhales deeply. The sheets, freshly laundered, have a crisp lemony smell to them. He spreads his legs across them and just luxuriates in all the different sensations, from the drag of 1000 thread-count cotton on his lower back, to the pinch of the G-string on his balls, to his heavy cock bulging against the front, to the cool air-conditioned air prickling across his skin. It all just clicks, a key fitting into a lock he didn’t know existed all along inside him, opening up all sorts of possibilities.

It’s funny because he doesn’t necessarily feel the need to wank. He just. He kind of wants to enjoy this, to bury himself in it, wallow in a pair of pretty knickers for no reason except that he _wants_ it for himself.

So he does.

 

 

## V.

Harry spends a lot of time with Zayn after he and Perrie call it quits for good. All the lads do in their own ways. It’s their default mode when one of them is under fire or hurting, close ranks and do everything humanly possible (and some things not entirely human, Zayn’s sure) to cheer each other up. Louis flat out calls it the Zayn Suicide Watch, which isn’t funny. But Zayn can admit to himself that there’ve been a few days (more than a few) when he’s felt low—not that low, but low enough.

He appreciates it, he _does_. He’s not an ungrateful prick about it or anything. It’s just when all is said and done, Harry’s the easiest to deal with in Save Zayn mode.

It’s not like with Liam who works out an actual schedule of ‘fun’ and ‘relaxing’ activities to keep Zayn’s mind off Pez and his fingers away from Twitter where a lot of fans are ripping him a new one for being such a fucking terrible fiancé (which, he can admit, he hadn’t been that great at the serious relationship thing—even when he’d tried). And while Zayn loved getting to see Avengers 2 in a private cinema in Bangkok with enough jumbo sized popcorn to feed a small county or the time he and Liam dressed up as Power Rangers and went karting for a whole day in around a stadium in Melbourne, it could get exhausting. It's Liam's way though, giving too much and doing too much because no matter how long it's been since 'Daddy Direction' was an actual thing, part of him still sees himself as the one who has to shoulder responsibility for keeping things copacetic. Zayn's incredibly relieved when Sophia comes out on tour with them, and gives Liam something way prettier and less depressing to focus his energies on.

Niall’s different. His idea of helping Zayn feel better is parties and alcohol, and huge quantities of both. Zayn can’t even remember how many casinos and nightclubs they hit in Australia, clambering on tables and jumping around like idiots, yelling high and loud to every song that came on. Then, when they’re drunk enough that they probably won’t remember in the morning, he’d tug Zayn into a gentle beer-breathed hug and ask, “Y’all right there?” with this blue-eyed solemnity that he only pulls off when he’s seriously shitfaced. And Zayn’d tuck his head into Niall’s shoulder and say back, “Yeah, mate, ’m all right.” And he means it, genuinely, in the moment he means it. It’s sort of Niall’s superpower.

Louis offers a different kind of forgetting. He’s shown up more than once with a bowl of the good stuff and Mario Kart, and they sit up well into the night playing and chatting, coming up with pranks they’ll undoubtedly regret in the morning or slagging off pretty much everyone they can think of, no filter required. Zayn’s insults get particularly creative when he’s high as a kite ( _I hate that pretentious, limp prick pimple_ ; _fuck that chlamydia-ridden monkey twat_ ; and _banana-faced poo-head_ ). They egg each other on, and it feels in those early hours of the morning when they’re the only ones awake in the haziness of Bus 2, blaring “California Love” on repeat that it’s them two against the world and nothing can touch them.

But with Harry it’s totally different.

For one, they fuck. A lot.

One time after a particularly energetic show that left all five of them splintered and shaking from the delayed high of being on a stage in front of a hundred thousand screaming people, Zayn slides down to the floor of his hotel room, seconds after Harry’s just sucked his entire soul out through his dick. He’s shell-shocked because _fuck_ the things Harry can do with his mouth. “You’re—like,” he babbles, his cock twitching limply against his stomach in the aftermath. He slumps back against the door. “You’re trying to kill me aren’t you? Literally kill me by sucking me cock dry, like a fucking Dementor.”

Harry giggles—actually giggles, which shouldn’t be as cute as it is, and leans over to lick at Zayn’s mouth, a sloppy kiss that makes Zayn grimace into it at the sour-salty taste of his own come on Harry’s tongue. “I’m just trying to make you feel better, babe.”

Zayn wheezes out a laugh. “What with the magical power of your cock?”

“Hm, if you like,” Harry kisses his way down to Zayn’s shoulder. “’Could, like, fuck all the sad thoughts out of you until the only thing you remember is me and my cock inside you if you want.”

And Zayn—Zayn wants. So he takes and he gets taken and it’s the least complicated non-relationship _thing_ he’s ever had with anyone.

He and Harry still haven’t found a way to be around each other without wanting to just push closer. They just keep falling into each other, into this unnameable but comfortable holding space. Zayn might read a book and Harry might fiddle on his phone the way he always does. They might fall asleep spooned on the sofa, surprisingly deep and peaceful naps in spite of Harry’s thunderous snoring. Or maybe they sit out on the balcony of whatever hotel they’re at and share a bottle of whiskey while they watch the sunrise.

Harry’s got a way of pulling Zayn outside of his head. With dumb jokes or, that one time they were in LA for the last single and all five of them stayed at Harry’s still half-renovated house, long rides along the coast (Harry’s nearly killed him thrice on that stupid motorcycle of his) so Zayn can feel the big-ness of the universe. Nothing but open road ahead and the sea to the right and the wind in his face, which is exactly the kind of sincere cheesiness Harry’s so good at.

They haven’t put a name to it and Zayn likes it that way. He’s just come out of a three-year relationship in which he was _mostly_ faithful (what’s the right word here? Sometimes, _often_ , as much as possible. He frowns wryly at himself, he’d definitely deserved every single name Perrie called him and the very graphic and threatening voice messages he’d gotten from Jade, Jesy and Leigh on top of that). He’s just not looking to be in that deep again so soon, not when he’s starting to sort of figure himself out. Harry probably gets that better than anyone.  So there it is, they understand each other and they want to fuck each other all the time and it’s as simple as that.

“Harry, I’m not watching fucking _Love, Actually_ again.”

“Why not?” Harry whines from where he’s posed in front of the television display, remote control in hand. His hair’s a halo of curls down to his shoulders, and he’s wearing one of those ridiculous shirts of his, all neon geometric patterns that look like a million puzzle pieces, unbuttoned nearly to the waist, and a pair of tight jeans. Zayn wonders if there’s some kind of Stockholm syndrome for appreciating poor fashion choices. Because somewhere along the line he’s grown to find this entire look ridiculously attractive. It’s not his style at all but it works on Harry.

He swallows the urge to start singing _Baby look what you done to me_ , the way he and Harry often do to each other as a joke, and says, “First of all, it’s May, not December—I refuse to watch Christmas movies before July.” Zayn’s very sure this is some sort of codified rule.

Harry changes the channel with a bitter sigh. “You made us watch _Die Hard_ two days ago,” he complains.

“Yeah, well, _Die Hard_ ’s a proper classic. I sat through _Armageddon_ on the flight for you, remember, and had to listen to you screech along with Steven Tyler for an hour straight after, I deserved a bonus.”

Harry can’t argue with that because he owns all five _Die Hards_ on Blu-Ray so he settles for pulling a funny face and carrying on with the search for something decent to watch.

The other lads had opted to go for a night out in Cape Town. None of them has ever been to this part of the world, every single time they discover somewhere new it’s an adventure. But tonight, Harry and Zayn hadn’t wanted to do much of anything, so they opted to stay behind and hang out at the hotel while the rest of the band and some of the team went off to some magical place their local guide called “Long Street” to party. Harry and Zayn’ll probably join them there tomorrow after the show though.

Harry finally settles on the first Austin Powers movie, it’s already mid-way, but as soon as he sees it he crows in delight, tossing his curly hair out of his eyes, “Oh yeah, I love this movie.”

“You would,” Zayn snorts.

“Heyyyy.”

Feeling like the jet-lag is still stiffening up his joints and that he needs something to help him sleep tonight because of it, Zayn points at his suitcase and asks, “Just get my pipe, babe, it’s in the inside pocket?”

He gets minimal griping, thank God. Harry’s not as finicky about pipes as he is about rollies. One time he’d told Zayn that the quality of the smell is different and doesn’t irritate his sinuses as much. Zayn’d called him a twat for it. He’d also gradually switched from joints to using the pipe more and more, but one thing has very little to do with the other.

He’s digging around in the bulging pockets of Zayn’s suitcase when he makes a strange garbled sound.

Zayn’s actual world comes to a stop when Harry raises himself up from a crouch, a froth of colour in his hands and a quizzical expression on his face like he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing.

_Oh, shit._

“Um, what are these?” He holds up one bra, dark maroon silk with black criss-cross straps that looked quite fetching on Zayn the one time he’d worn it. Harry’s studying the overwhelmingly large pile of elaborate underclothes in his hands with a furrowed brow.

Zayn figures that playing dumb probably won’t work in this instance given that Harry’s holding the evidence in his hand so he opts for downplaying, and mutters through his teeth, “It’s nothing.”

Suddenly, Harry’s cackling. “Wait, are—are these like pulling souvenirs, or something? Christ, Zayn, there’s a lot in here, too, and we’ve only been on tour for like three months...." His laughter trails off and he peers at all the underwear again. "When’d you find the time to collect all these?”

If Zayn detects a hard edge in the way Harry says it, he chooses to ignore it.

“It’s not anything, Haz—just put them away.” He wishes he could dissolve through the mattress and find himself in some alternate universe where he could stop Harry from rifling through his shit and finding his stash. It’s not that he’s ashamed or anything, he’s just, a bit embarrassed.

“Oh dear,” Harry says with a stricken look on his face that makes him look like a very pretty but frightened frog. “Are they Perrie’s? Have you been carrying Perrie’s underwear around in a satchel and like—sniffing them because you’re so sad? We talked about this—.”

“Fucking hell, they’re not Perrie’s, all right?” Zayn interrupts, his voice almost too-loud. He scratches at his beard, focuses on the rip in his jeans. “They’re _mine_.”

Harry, who’d been ready to launch into one of his rambling lectures on how Zayn needs to take care of himself and stop beating himself up all the time looks like he’s just been slapped in the face by a purple unicorn. “… Oh.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mutters and his fingers feel itchy, as though he needs to light a cigarette just to find something to do with them. Instead he picks at the frayed knee-hole on his jeans and tries not to do something weird like leap off the bed, grab his lingerie, and run out the fucking room.

“Yours … as in….” Harry swallows thick. “As in, you, like, you _wear_ them yours?”

 _Might as well throw the basket in with the baby and everything else_ , Zayn thinks. “Yeah, sometimes.”

Harry’s eyebrows climb up his forehead like they’re being controlled by some invisible wire. He looks down dumbly at his hands and then up at Zayn and then down again, and asks in that slow as dripping molasses way of his, “As in you wear them… when or where? How come I haven't—?”

“I don’t—you know, when I’m in my room some nights, days even. Or, like, under my clothes, during concerts or like yesterday even—I wore one of those under my shirt, it’s not a big deal or anything,” he says in a rush. “Just put them away and we don’t have to talk about it again. Ever.”

“Are you wearing any now?” Harry asks, his voice slightly hoarse.

Zayn shoots him a questioning look. “Nah, just wearing my regular boxers today, yeah?”

Harry still hasn’t made a move to put them down. His mouth is pursed and his shoulders are hunched in that way it gets when he’s thinking very hard about something and isn’t sure where to begin.

Sighing, Zayn says bites out, “You gonna take the piss then?”

Harry shakes his head. “I just—you’re okay, right? This isn’t because—?”

That’s when Zayn realises that it’s not judgement or disgust that he’s hearing in Harry’s unfinished question. It’s concern, care, kindness. For him. To make sure that in everything, _he’s_ okay. To reassure him that if he’s unsteady or needs an ear, needs someone to hold him up, Harry’s there.

So he says with a sheepish smile, “I promise, there’s no creepy, weird reason. I just—I like it, y’know? How it feels, how it looks. Sometimes it makes me hot, sometimes it just makes… like, it makes sense.” _He’s_ not making much sense articulating it but Zayn’s never been much good at saying things out loud that he just feels intrinsically.

Even so, Harry nods like he gets it and the momentary stiffness in his shoulders disappears. He looks down at the lingerie, and this time, there’s a hazy faraway expression on his face and he’s flushed poppy-red in the cheeks.

“You all right, Harry?”

He seems to come back to himself, clenches his jaw before he says with raspy certainty. “Want to see you in them.” His eyes have a sharper, hungrier look to them this time and he’s staring right at Zayn, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, and—

Oh. _Oh_.

“You messing with me right now?”

“Not even a little. _Please_?” And he shouldn’t be able to sound so sweetly earnest while also looking like he wants to swallow Zayn-in-a-pair-of-naughty-knickers whole. But it’s Harry so of course he can.

And, Zayn wishes that he was high out of his mind. Because this conversation, in all its ridiculousness, would be a lot easier to handle if he was properly dazed and confused. Right now he’s caught between horny and confused and he’s not sure what to do with that. So he nods, quickly, a faint, “Yeah, all right,” escaping his mouth before he high-tails it into bathroom, grabbing his lingerie out of Harry’s hands on the way.

He picks the blue-and-red “Lucy” because it’s one of his favourites and it’s the only complete set he managed to snatch when he ran in here. He’s glad though, it’s probably one of the racier pieces of lingerie he has but that’s exactly what he likes about it. It’s slinky and feminine but leaves very little to the imagination.

He looks at himself in the mirror. The blue lacy number fits just right, peekaboo eyelets flashing a bit of nipple, his dick, half-hard already just at the act of putting this on _for Harry_ , poking out the non-existent crotch like it’s waving hello to the world. He selects a pair of lace-top stockings in dark blue, so dark they look black, for the simple reason that he likes how they look and feel on his legs—sexy and silky smooth—and they can stay up without garters. And, Harry would probably like them.

 _Harry_.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he scolds his reflection in the mirror, “What the fuck are you doing, Zayn?”

The thing is, he _wants_ Harry to see. He wants him to touch. Wants to share this thing that’s been private for a while now with one of his best mates because already it feels good, his cock, his whole body, tells him that. It could make things weird but he doesn’t think it will. But it’s new territory with the two of them and that’s something he can’t forget. Stomach jumping, Zayn licks his dry lips, and lets his hair down, runs a hand through it because he’s not going to spend an hour primping for this, make up and all, the way he sometimes does when he’s alone. That might make this really weird for Harry. One last glance at his reflection, he opens the door and steps into the bedroom.

“Wow,” is the first thing Harry says from where he’s sitting right on the edge of the bed facing the bathroom door. His eyes are wide and his gaze drops down to Zayn’s stocking-clad feet and then upwards, slower on the second pass, as though he’s trying to take it all in, greedy with it.

“So, what do you think?” Zayn wishes he could be ultra-cool with this. Maybe pose on the door jamb like some femme fatale in one of those old school noir movies, all sexy and confident-like. But he’s never done this in front of someone else and he’s half-expecting Harry to poke fun, so instead he ducks his head, cheeks on fire.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Harry breathes out in a rush. Zayn snaps his head up so fast it clicks, and he’s still staring. Harry’s the most harmless person Zayn knows but he has this way, sometimes, of looking like a wolf. His eyes go piercing and hungry, nostrils flared, lips red and wet like he can smell the heat coming off of Zayn’s body, taste the want coiling inside him.

Zayn shivers. Sometimes he wants to be eaten. “Y-you like it?”

Harry swallows and his gaze lingers for a second on the stockings and then he zeroes in on Zayn’s dick, fully hard now and rearing through the hole in his thong, and he meets Zayn’s eyes. He huffs out, “I don’t think ‘like’ covers it, babe.”

Shrugging off any nervousness he still had, Zayn moves forward, one foot in front of the other until he’s standing right between Harry’s open legs. He glances down and Harry’s dick is hard and thick inside those tight jeans of his, his hands curled into fists on his knees like he’s stopping himself from touching. And Zayn realises then that he wants to hear it. Wants to hear exactly what Harry’s thinking right now, what he’s seeing.

“Tell me then.”

“God, when you were Veronica, that was lovely enough but this….” He trails off, and does another once-over and it still looks like he can’t believe his eyes, like he can’t believe he has all of this in front of him. “This is—well, it’s the hottest bloody thing I’ve ever seen. And I saw you with a goatee. And that time you had the Johnny Depp hair. And that other time you—well, I could go on.”

He’s so candid with it, his face wide open, his eyes warm and full of something that Zayn’s not sure he wants to give a name but it makes his heart do a funny little jump. He tilts his head to kiss Harry’s mouth, tender in thanks.

Harry deepens it for a few seconds, his tongue curling out to taste Zayn’s before he leans back and asks, breathless. “Can I touch you?”

Zayn nods.

The heartfelt, “Oh thank god,” he gets in return makes him giggle out loud.

And then Harry’s hands are cupping his arse and dragging him in close until his knees hit the edge of the bed. And Zayn stops laughing.

Harry kisses his way up from the gun tattoo on Zayn’s abdomen to his left nipple, flicks his tongue around it until it hardens. Zayn whimpers at the ache, brings his hand up to grasp the hair at Harry’s nape and pull him closer.

“Love this bra,” he mumbles into Zayn’s chest. Staring up through half-lidded eyes, he moves to give the other nipple the same attention, this time he bites down into the soft flesh. Enough that it makes Zayn utter a strangled “Yes.” He tightens his grip on Harry’s hair.

Harry sits back and shucks his t-shirt, leers at Zayn, his lips already swollen and berry-pink. “Tomorrow and the day after that, we’re gonna take our time with this but right now, I just wanna fuck you.”

Harry’s nothing if not straight-forward. Zayn appreciates that about him. “Do it then,” he says, his eyebrow cocked.

He pokes his finger right in the middle of Harry’s chest and pushes him so he falls back on the bed. The grin on Harry’s face is all teeth and if Zayn’s cock wasn’t already leaking, it is now. He ignores that for a second to unbutton Harry’s jeans and yank them down, so impatient he pulls his briefs down with them.

Harry scrambles backwards so he can grab a pillow for his head and then he lies down, naked and shameless, and takes his dick in hand.

He’s a fucking sight like that. His hair a mess of curls, lips caught between his teeth while he fists himself roughly. Zayn stares at the action, hypnotised. Harry has a beautiful cock, thick enough that Zayn feels it for at least a day any time they really go at it, dusky pink, pre-cum gathering at the slightly flared tip as he slicks himself up with each pass.

Harry clears his throat and raises his eyebrow as if daring Zayn to come right up and take a seat.

God, he’s such a brat. And it’s embarrassing just how hot Zayn finds that arrogance.

Zayn reaches behind himself to take the bra off but Harry shakes his head. “Leave everything on—wanna fuck you just like that, babe.” His voice is gritty at the edges with the demand. Harry’s never shy about saying exactly what he wants, sometimes he’s surly and pouty about it, especially when he doesn’t get it immediately. Other times, like now, he’s firm and greedy and domineering, like he knows that he’s gonna get what he wants because there’s not a soul in the world that would say no to him.

Zayn’s got a taste for both versions so he does as told, placing one knee on the bed and then the other, graceful as he knows how. All that awkward-footedness from earlier is gone, replaced by desire so insistent it makes him think he’ll bust apart the second Harry even touches him. He crawls up between Harry’s legs, back arched so he knows that Harry can see the G-string on these panties digging in between his arse cheeks. He stops for a second to dip his head down and lick the white droplets of come bubbling at the tip of his cock.

“Fuck, that's it,” Harry groans. He thrusts his hips upward, pushing himself deeper into Zayn’s mouth. Zayn meets his gaze through the curtain of his hair and Harry makes a shattered sound, half-moan, half-breathless laugh.

Zayn loves the taste of him, nutty with a hint of sweet. He flattens his tongue and takes in as much dick as he can, sucks deep. He comes up for air with a loud slurp, lets the mixture of his spit and Harry’s pre-cum slaver out the sides of his wide-open mouth, plays with the fleshy foreskin with his tongue while he's at it. He loves this bit, getting Harry all wet and messy, likes the way Harry fills his mouth until his cheeks hurt. He could get off from just this alone but Harry tugs at his hair and shakes his head. “Want you up here, babe, come on.”

He pulls Zayn up, his easy strength on display as he does it. “Want to come inside you,” he says, “Can I?”

And Zayn wishes he could say no to that face, but he’s not been able to for about three years and he’s not going to start today.

Straddling Harry’s hips, Zayn reaches for the bottle of slick they’d thrown on the bedside table the day before, smears some on his fingers and reaches behind, pushing the thong aside to fuck himself open. He lets out a mewling groan on the first breach. It’s been a while since he bottomed but it doesn’t take long to get passed the initial sting. Then he’s adding another finger, curling them up inside to get there faster.

Harry strokes Zayn’s thighs and watches him closely, watches every part of him. “God, you have no idea how you look right now.”

He grabs the slick and rubs it all over his cock. And just the look of him, glistening and hard and ready, is enough to make Zayn’s fingers stutter.

He shakes his head and pulls his fingers out, shifting up a bit.

“You sure you’re ready, babe?”

Any other time, Zayn would find Harry’s attentive concern endearing, but now he just kind of wants his dick. He says as much and his bluntness draws a startled, pleased laugh out of Harry.  Zayn gets like this when he’s horny, just demanding and single-minded about it, desperate enough to beg and to take what he wants. So he does.

He gets up on his knees and positions Harry’s dick at his entrance, and lowers himself. That first pop of the fat head of Harry’s dick inside him makes Zayn wince, the stretch just this side of painful. But he bears down, breathes through it and sinks down inch by inch.

They both hiss “Fuck,” at the same time.

Harry’s got his head thrown back against the pillow, eyes screwed shut, as though he’s holding himself together by the thinnest of strings.

Once Zayn’s fully seated, he lets out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. His dick’s so hard that what there is of his panties just stretches around it.

“You all right?” Harry asks, his voice strained.

Zayn doesn’t bother to answer, just raises himself up and then back down again, starts to ride in a slow sure rhythm. He feels so good filled up like this and it doesn’t take him long to pick up the pace, grinding his hips in a circle the way he knows Harry likes. He reaches up to with his left hand to pinch his nipple, revels in that sharp pain before it dissipates.

“Oh god,” Harry mutters raggedly. “Oh god, you’re so tight, babe. So tight.”

Without warning, Harry switches them around so Zayn’s flat on his back. And honestly Zayn will never get over how easy it is for Harry to manhandle him in bed, it’s a huge turn-on.

Kneeling to give himself leverage, Harry starts fucking into Zayn, hard and fast. He’s so focused with it, his hair wild and sticking to his face. His forehead is screwed in concentration like the only thing on his mind right then is chasing after it, chasing after the feeling. And he’s close already, leaking pre-cum steadily, Zayn can feel his dick sloppy with it inside him. Every rough lunge echoes around the room with a lewd squelch.

Zayn gasps when Harry slams into his prostrate, arches up into that. “Harder, Haz, need you—.”

Then Harry seizes up, sudden like he’s been electrocuted, and he’s coming. His hips pump unsteadily with each warm pulse of come, filling Zayn’s arse, and he's making these ruined whimpers. His eyes are wide as though he surprised even himself with how fast he came. “Jesus, fuck, Zayn— _what_ …?”

He collapses on top of Zayn, a sweaty heap, trembling uncontrollably with the force of his orgasm.

Zayn presses a kiss on his shoulder, tastes the sweat-salty skin there. He can’t even be disappointed that he hasn’t come yet, even with his dick uncomfortably hard, squashed as it is between him and Harry’s bodies because that was— _wow_. There’s no doubt in his mind now that Harry definitely liked him in lingerie. More than liked. Pride eddies inside him until he might burst with it. _He_ did that to Harry.

Harry lifts his head up, a rueful grin stretching his mouth, and says, utterly fucked out, “That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had. I’m not even joking.”

Zayn laughs, slightly strained because he wants a nice orgasm too—wants to share that overheated sleepy-satisfied feeling. Harry notices and his smile turns lascivious. “Let me take care of you now, yeah?”

He pulls out gingerly and Zayn grimaces at the mess of come that slides out with the movement. That’s nasty even for them. But then Harry’s nudging at his hip and urging him to turn around. Zayn’s so hard he feels like he could drill a hole in the mattress. Unfortunately he doesn’t get a chance to find out if he can because Harry pushes him up on his hands and knees.

Zayn can’t see him like this but he can feel his gaze. And he feels vulnerable and naked and excruciatingly horny, and he really wants to come. He opens his mouth to beg, but then he feels Harry shove the thong aside roughly and a thick finger poke at his hole, right where the come’s still dribbling out. And then that finger’s replaced with a warm, wet tongue. And Zayn squeals, high-pitched and everything, a sound he’ll deny ever making for the rest of his entire life.

“Harry? Oh shit, fuck me.”

Harry doesn’t respond to that request verbally. Instead, he pulls his tongue out of Zayn’s arse, spreads his cheeks apart, and licks a slow line up the taint. He moans low and thick, and the heat of that sound ripples through Zayn. Then he curls his tongue and starts to jab it in and out, lapping up his own come from Zayn’s hole like it’s his new life purpose.

Zayn sobs out at the sensation. It’s so fucking _dirty_.

“God, you’re so filthy,” he gasps out loud because he needs to tell Harry this. He bites into the pillow beneath his head as Harry ignores him and just scrapes his teeth against his rim, playful nips that make Zayn’s dick jump.

Then he says, his voice raw, “I’m not the one getting eaten out while wearing a pair of lacy somethings and some stockings.”

“F-fuck you,” Zayn laughs, his voice shaking. “You love it.”

Harry just smacks an open-mouthed kiss on Zayn’s left butt cheek. Chuckling, he reaches around to fist Zayn’s cock and says right into Zayn’s arsehole, “Yeah, I do, babe. Loved fucking you in it.” His breath is so hot and it’s like Harry’s talking _inside_ him; it's almost too much to bear.

He’s not gentle the way he’s handling Zayn’s cock, callused fingers holding him in a tight grip. And it’s exactly what Zayn needs right then.

He doesn’t stop talking either, each word hungry and husky.

 “Wish I could come home every day and see you in nothing but lacy underwear. Ready and waiting for me to fuck you so good, just the way you like it.” Zayn wheezes out a breath, arches his back so his bottom sticks out just so for more of Harry’s attentions. “Look at you, so hungry for it.”

Zayn nods desperately. Because _yes_. _Yes_ , he wants that. Every fucking day. He thrusts his hips forward into Harry’s hand moving fast on his dick and backwards into his mouth, which is still pressing kisses all over Zayn’s arse. “Come for me, Zayn, make a mess of your knickers. Come on.”

And then he’s coming. The heat of it rushing through his body like whiplash and he grunts loudly. He goes off so hard he nearly brains himself on the headboard, and everything burns white for a breathless moment.

Minutes later, it could be hours, when Zayn comes to, he’s sprawled across the bed and Harry’s kissing his way up his spine, gentle and almost restrained after all of that.

He pushes one last kiss into the fantail tattoo between Zayn’s shoulder blades and flops down beside him.

Zayn turns his head to look at him, a stupid grin on his face. Harry grins back, all dimples and just as stupid. “So, I hope that didn’t freak you too much,” he says, a bit of bashfulness creeping into the question because Harry keeps staring at him like he’s done something incredibly special when he hasn’t, at all.

“No,” he murmurs, heartfelt and oddly serious. “I don’t think there’s much you could do to ‘freak me out.’”

And right then, is the moment this thing between him and Harry shifts, takes on a different but not unwelcome shape. He’s not sure what this is, what they are—but he wants to keep it close and safe for as long as it lasts.

Harry reaches up to push Zayn’s mussed hair off his forehead, and it’s so tender and sweet that Zayn just tilts his face into it, closes his eyes for a beat. When he opens them again, Harry’s leaning in for a kiss and Zayn tamps down the urge to tell him he has a dirty mouth, which is literally true this time. Instead, he just sinks into it. It’s soft, intimate, and just a tiny bit filthy. He smiles.

## 

** [Art by Emmie/Prettymuchjustsomestuff on Tumblr](http://prettymuchjustsomestuff.tumblr.com/post/107623088693/i-blame-magali-go-read-languiddreamers-if-you) **

 

 

** [Art by Kendi/Wakaflockazayn on Tumblr](http://wakaflockazayn.tumblr.com/post/107717581136/for-maggie-languiddreamers-horrifyingly-amazing) **

 

 

## fin

**Author's Note:**

> So, here are some of the things that inspired and handy visuals to think about Zayn in frilly knickers. This is the [Lucy](http://www.hommemystere.com/store/product_images/g/149/_DAP2506__41305_zoom.jpg). A better view of how those panties [work](http://40.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m69lgkll9H1rtm0a8o1_500.jpg). [This](http://41.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1zpbqKKov1rqa08fo1_500.jpg), [this](https://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_me0z5u83In1rqa08fo1_1280.png) and [this](https://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_me0z5u83In1rqa08fo2_1280.png) served as inspiration for the first outfit Zayn wears when he tries lingerie on for himself. This is Veronica’s [girdle](http://cdn.secretsinlace.com/images/uploads/703_2726_popup.jpg) and how it’d look with the stockings. Here are a few of the other things Zayn bought: this [purple corset](http://41.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1zpe2vcy61rqa08fo1_500.jpg), because we all know he likes a bit of dress up and it reminded him of Zatanna Zatara. Who doesn’t love Zayn in [red](http://36.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ltpposEHce1qepxneo1_500.jpg)? I mean, [really](http://40.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m8u8gdgX6n1rdezxco1_500.jpg)? Zayn enjoys puttering around in his art room in [this (top one)](https://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m46puaFmWR1r2x9qeo1_1280.jpg). Sometimes on warm summer days, [the floral/cherry ones on the bottom](https://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m46puaFmWR1r2x9qeo1_1280.jpg). [THIS HAPPENED](http://36.media.tumblr.com/6824d17b9243d9e276089d352342fda1/tumblr_n071jeINXU1tron0uo1_500.jpg). This [picture](https://31.media.tumblr.com/9102a42f8fb45b641bdd8500f50d33d4/tumblr_n01x46BKYi1tron0uo1_500.jpg) speaks to me, perhaps Harry got a bit too rough, tore Zayn’s favourite stockings. A person can [dream](https://38.media.tumblr.com/229e2c337c1c266ae263c07dea980bff/tumblr_ncip29AiwP1qgxdbdo2_1280.jpg).
> 
> I own nothing but the story. Thanks for reading, comments and feedback are treasured. You can find me [here](languiddreamer.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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